Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
|---|---|---|
Searching... Bayport Public Library | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Hardwood Creek Library (Forest Lake) | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Park Grove Library (Cottage Grove) | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... R.H. Stafford Library (Woodbury) | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Valley Library (Lakeland) | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Wildwood Library (Mahtomedi) | FICTION FER | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
An Oprah.com Page-Turning Novels Pick
A 2017 Indie Next Pick
A Bustle Most Anticipated Thriller Novel of 2017
An Entertainment Weekly "Must List" Pick
A high-stakes drama set against the harsh beauty of the Maine wilderness, charting the journey of four friends as they fight to survive the aftermath of a white water rafting accident, The River at Night is a nonstop and unforgettable thriller by a stunning new voice in fiction.
Winifred Allen needs a vacation.
Stifled by a soul-crushing job, devastated by the death of her beloved brother, and lonely after the end of a fifteen-year marriage, Wini is feeling vulnerable. So when her three best friends insist on a high-octane getaway for their annual girls' trip, she signs on, despite her misgivings.
What starts out as an invigorating hiking and rafting excursion in the remote Allagash Wilderness soon becomes an all-too-real nightmare: A freak accident leaves the women stranded, separating them from their raft and everything they need to survive. When night descends, a fire on the mountainside lures them to a ramshackle camp that appears to be their lifeline. But as Wini and her friends grasp the true intent of their supposed saviors, long buried secrets emerge and lifelong allegiances are put to the test. To survive, Wini must reach beyond the world she knows to harness an inner strength she never knew she possessed.
With intimately observed characters, visceral prose, and pacing as ruthless as the river itself, The River at Night is a dark exploration of creatures--both friend and foe--that you won't soon forget.
Author Notes
Erica Ferencik is an American writer, essayist and screenwriter, born on October 21, 1958 in Urbana Illinois. She studied painting and French at the University of Massachusetts, earning a Bachelor of Arts degree and later graduated from Boston University with a Masters in Creative Writing. Her essays appear in Salon, the Boston Globe, and on National Public Radio (NPR). She is the author of the screenplay New Mom, and co-wrote the screenplay Mob Dot Com with Rick D'Elia. Her nonfiction work includes Radio My Way. She has written 3 novels, Repeaters, Cracks in the Foundation, and The River at Night.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The decision of four female friends pushing 40 to spend their vacation white-water rafting in a remote corner of Maine jump-starts this adrenaline rush of a novel from Ferencik (Repeaters). Winifred "Wini" Allen isn't keen on the idea, but she goes along to be with Pia Zanderlee, who arranged the trip, and two other close friends. Wini also needs to get away-her brother has recently died, her husband has left her, and she despises her job as a graphic designer for a Boston-based food magazine. Pia has hired a hunky 20-year-old Maine college student, Rory Ekhart, to be their guide. The river outing has barely begun when tragedy strikes and the group is left without their raft and most supplies. But battling nature pales when they realize that they aren't the only people in the area. Set over five days, this adventure tests the women's friendship while also depicting their resilience. Fans of John Dickey's Deliverance will enjoy this current take on the wilderness survival tale. Agent: Erin Harris, Folio Literary Management. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
A gal-pal vacation goes over the falls and into hell.I folded my arms. Felt my friends eyes burning into me. My God, I thoughthow old do you have to be to listen to your gut? Older than food-magazine art director Wini Allen, apparently, because despite the clanging alarm bells in her head, this tired, sad woman joins her longtime best friends on an extreme whitewater rafting trip in Maine planned by their ringleader, an Amazonian sneaker marketer named Pia Zanderlee. Gathering once a year for a group vacation, the foursome is bound by invisible golden thread the fifty-one weeks a year we were apart. Tied in a golden bow the week we spend together....Dysfunctional in our own female-friendship way; but our bonds were unbreakable. Their adventure in Maine will be led by a studly college student named Rory who has shoulder-length dreadlocks and eyes the exact green of an asparagus mousse wed featured in our March issue. This is his fifth time on the largely inaccessible and untraveled river. In fact, the names for its passagesSatans Staircase, Hungry Mother, The Toothwere coined by Rory himself. Things get off to a tense start when Pia and Rory noisily hook up the first night, but in the morning there is peach-colored light behind the mountains and a thrilling run on the river during which even Wini believes in God. Looking back, I equate this stage of enjoying the wilderness with the second glass of wine, she muses, falling back on a more familiar frame of reference. Everything is lighter; you can see the funny side of disaster. But things rarely improve with the third, they get dangerous with the fourth, and you better pray to God someone is around to scoop you off the floor after that. Actually, its far, far worse than that analogy would imply; at a certain point Ferenciks latest (Repeaters, 2011, etc.) takes a turn for the bloody and deranged. The wilderness adventure part of this book is excellent; the heart-of-darkness horror movie in the third act less so. Still, you wont put it down. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
The past few years have not been easy for Winifred Allen. Her younger brother's death and a divorce have left her emotionally drained. She hopes the annual trip with her three best friends, Pia, Sandra, and -Rachel, will be a welcome respite from her problems. Emboldened by Pia's adventurous spirit, Wini, despite her fears, agrees to whitewater rafting in the uncharted wilds of Maine. After a long car trip, the ladies meet their guide and embark on the challenging -rapids. When a log capsizes their raft, there are deadly consequences. Struggling to survive, Wini and her friends are faced with terrible choices when they stumble onto a camp and the salvation they expect turns into more danger. VERDICT In the tradition of James Dickey's Deliverance, this exciting survival tale by the author of Repeaters hooks from the first page, but it is the strong character development that really stands out. Wini is a compelling heroine, a flawed woman whose fears and regrets are fleshed out by flashbacks throughout the narrative. The friendships among the four women are well drawn and believable.-Lynnanne Pearson, Skokie P.L., IL © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
The River at Night 1 Early one morning in late March, Pia forced my hand. A slapping spring wind ushered me through the heavy doors of the YMCA lobby as the minute hand of the yellowing 1950s-era clock over the check-in desk snapped to 7:09. Head down and on task to be in my preferred lane by precisely 7:15, I rushed along the glass corridor next to the pool. The chemical stink leaked from the ancient windows, as did the muffled shrieks of children and the lifeguard's whistle. I felt cosseted by the shabby walls, by my self-righteous routine, by the fact that I'd ousted myself from my warm bed to face another tedious day head-on. Small victories. I'd just squeezed myself into my old-lady swimsuit when the phone in my bag began to bleat. I dug it out. The screen pulsed with the image of Pia Zanderlee ski-racing down a double black diamond slope somewhere in Banff. My choices? Answer it now or play phone tag for another week. Pia was that friend you love with a twinge of resentment. The sparkly one who never has time for you unless it's on her schedule, but you like her too much to flush her down the friendship toilet. "Wow, a phone call--from you!" I said as I mercilessly assessed my middle-aged pudge in the greasy mirror. "To what do I owe the honor?" Of course I knew the reason. Five unanswered texts. Pia laughed. "Hey, Win, listen. We need to make our reservations. Like, by tomorrow." I fished around in my swim bag for my goggles. "Yeah, I haven't--" "I get it. Nature's not your thing, but you're going to love it once you're out there. Rachel and Sandra are chomping at the bit to go, but they have to make their travel plans. We all do." With a shudder, I recalled my frantic Google search the night before for Winnegosset River Rafting, Maine. No results. "Just wondering why this place doesn't have some kind of website. I mean, is it legit?" I asked, my voice coming out all high and tinny. Already I was ashamed of my wussiness. "I'd hate to get all the way up there and find out this is some sort of shady operation--" I could feel her roll her eyes. "Wini, just because some place or something or someone doesn't have a website doesn't mean they don't exist." She sounded windblown, breathless. I pictured her power walking through her Cambridge neighborhood, wrist weights flashing neon. "It's a big old world out there. One of the reasons this place is so awesome is because no one knows about it yet, so it's not booked solid before the snow's even melted. That's why there's space for the weekend we all want, get it? This year, it's the world's best-kept secret--next year, forget it!" "I don't know, Pia . . ." I glanced at the time: 7:14. She laughed, softening to me now. "Look, the guy who runs the white-water tours is a good friend of my dad--he's my dad's friend's son, I mean, so it's cool." "Can't believe Rachel would want to--" "Are you crazy? She's dying to go. And Sandra? Please. She'd get on a plane right now if she could." With a wave of affection I pictured my last Skype with Sandra: kids running around screaming in the background, papers to correct stacked next to her. When I brought up the trip, she'd groaned, Hell, yes, I'm game for anything--just get me out of Dodge! "Wini, listen up: Next year--I promise, we'll go to a beach somewhere. Cancún, Key West, you choose. Do nothing and just bake." "Look, Pia, I'm at the pool and I'm going to lose my lane--" "Okay. Swim. Then call me." I tucked my flyaway dirty-blond bob--the compromise cut for all hopelessly shitty hair--under my bathing cap, then hustled my stuff into a locker and slammed it shut. Do nothing and just bake. Did she really think that was all I was interested in? Who was the one who rented the bike the last time we went to the Cape? Just me, as I recalled, while all of them sat around the rental pouring more and more tequila into the blender each day. And my God--we were all pushing forty--shouldn't awesome and cool be in the rearview mirror by now? * * * I crossed the slimy tiles of the dressing room and pushed open the swinging doors to the pool. The air hit me, muggy and warm, dense with chlorine that barely masked an underwhiff of urine and sweat. Children laughed and punched at the blue water in the shallow end as I padded over to my favorite lane, which was . . . occupied. It was 7:16 and frog man had beat me to it. Fuck. For close to a year, this nonagenarian ear, nose, and throat doc tor and I had been locked in a mostly silent daily battle over the best lane--far left-hand side, under the skylights--from 7:15 to 8:00 each weekday morning. Usually I was the victor, something about which I'd felt ridiculous glee. We'd only ever exchanged the briefest of greetings; both of us getting to the Y a notch earlier each day. I imagined we both craved this mindless exercise, thoughts freed by the calming boredom of swimming and near weightlessness. But today I'd lost the battle. I plopped down on a hard plastic seat, pouting inside but feigning serenity as I watched him slap through his slow-motion crawl. He appeared to lose steam near the end of a lap, then climbed the ladder out of the pool as only a ninety-year-old can: with careful deliberation in every step. As I watched the water drip off his flat ass and down his pencil legs, I realized that he was making his way to me, or rather to a stack of towels next to me, and in a few seconds I'd pretty much have to talk to him. He uncorked his goggles with a soft sucking sound. I noticed his eyes seemed a bit wearier than usual, even for a man his age who had just worked his daily laps. "How are you?" I shifted in my seat, conscious of my bathing cap squeezing my head and distorting my face as I stole the odd glance at the deliciously empty lane. "I'm well, thank you. Though very sad today." I studied him more closely now, caught off guard by his intimate tone. "Why?" Though his expression was grim, I wasn't prepared for what he said. "I just lost my daughter to cancer." "I'm sorry," I choked out. I felt socked in the soft fleshy parts; smacked off the rails of my deeply grooved routine and whipped around to face something I didn't want to see. He took a towel and poked at his ears with it. A gold cross hung from a glimmering chain around his thin neck, the skin white and rubbery looking. "It was a long struggle. Part of me is glad it's over." He squinted at me as if seeing me for the first time. "She was about your age," he added, turning to walk away before I could utter a word of comfort. I watched him travel in his flap step the length of the pool to the men's lockers, his head held down so low I could barely see the top of it. My hands trembled as I gripped the steel ladder and made my way down into the antiseptic blue. I pushed off. Eyes shut tight and heart pumping, I watched the words She was about your age hover in my brain until the letters dissolved into nothingness. The horror of his offhand observation numbed me as I turned and floated on my back, breathing heavily in the oppressive air. As I slogged joylessly through my laps, I thought of my own father rolling his eyes when I said I was afraid of sleepaway camp, of third grade, of walking on grass barefoot "because of worms." As cold as he could be to my brother and me, not a thing on earth seemed to frighten him. I had barely toweled myself off when my phone lit up with a text from Pia. A question mark, that was it. Followed by three more. Methodically I removed my work clothes from my locker, arranging them neatly on the bench behind me. I pulled off my bathing cap, sat down, and picked up the phone. My thumbs hovered over the keys as I shivered in the overheated locker room. I took a deep breath--shampoo, rubber, mold, a sting of disinfectant--and slowly let it out, a sharp pain lodging in my gut. I couldn't tell which was worse, the fear of being left behind by my friends as they dashed away on some überbonding, unforgettable adventure, or the inevitable self-loathing if I stayed behind like some gutless wimp--safe, always safe--half-fucking- dead with safety. Why couldn't I just say yes to a camping trip with three of my best friends? What was I so afraid of? Pool water dripped from my hair, beading on the phone as I commanded myself to text something. Anything. I watched my fingers as they typed, Okay, I'm in, and pressed send. Excerpted from The River at Night by Erica Ferencik All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
